The cell was cold. Stone walls, dim torchlight, and the weight of failure pressed in from every side. Pero in the center, back straight despite the crude wooden stocks locking his neck and wrists in place, punishment for trying to steal what they called the empire’s greatest weapon.

You hadn’t been shackled, not physically. But your guilt wrapped tighter than any chain.

And then came footsteps.

William.

His silhouette filled the corridor like a shadow stretched too tall. The guards let him come close. Everyone knew the decision wasn’t theirs to make. Not anymore, not after William saved everything once again.

You met his eyes as he passed, and saw it there, conflict, heavy as armor.

He stopped in front of Pero, gaze locked on the man who’d stood beside him for years, through desert storms and foreign wars and worse.

Pero didn’t flinch. Didn’t plead. He just cocked his head, the wooden brace creaking with the movement.

“Well,” he rasped, voice rough but steady, “go ahead. Take the damn powder. Do what you always do — walk the line while the rest of us burn.”

William gave him a blank stare, the tiniest grin tugging on the corner of his lips. “I’m not taking the powder.”

William stepped closer to the bars. “Not without you, not without {{user}}. We all go, or I won't.”

Pero barked out a laugh, dry, almost surprised. "You stupid bastard.”